It was on a feast-day that I came upon Hoorn, and the place was garbed in gala attire. Throughout the morning the hotel stableboys were kept busy tending the horses of rural arrivals, and every stable-yard was congested with wagonettes and carts. Never have I seen such a variety of vehicles. There was the painted produce wagon with its white canvas cover; there was the gayly decorated antique “two-wheeler,” its body swung upon heavy straps held fore and aft at the ends of great protruding springs; there was the commodious, shapely cart of plum-colored upholstery, belonging to the “gentleman farmer”; and there was a host of others too numerous to describe in detail. Hoorn’s main street had been roped off, and the bricks covered with a thick layer of sand, in preparation for the series of horse races that was soon to take place up and down its length. Along about noon the Dutch David Harums led their horses down to the improvised race track behind the village band in all its glory, and the festivities were on. [Illustration: Hoorn on a feast-day. The main street has been roped off and its brick paving covered with sand in preparation for a series of horse races] Running races were of necessity tabooed on account of the danger to life and property--the actions of the horse being restricted to such an extent by the limited fairway of the course that, in event of the horse’s losing its head, even the side ropes along the street could not restrain it from dashing through the crowd and into the window of the nearest cheese shop. But there were sulky races between the Hal Pointers and the Palo Altos of the district, driven with rope reins by erstwhile jockeys, some of the costumes of whom were no less curious than the harness of the horses. Breeches, in some cases, and blouses, in others, looked as if they might have been recently redeemed from many years of confinement in Amsterdam’s municipal pawnshop, their public sale having been repeatedly overlooked.